


shall we dance?

by sheila_amour



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, M/M, illya kuryakin is a giant of a man, this is just pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheila_amour/pseuds/sheila_amour
Summary: Illya struggles to learn how to dance before Waverly’s New Years party.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 139
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	shall we dance?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaijusizefeels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/gifts).



> Happy holidays! I hope you enjoy this!

“I do not know how to dance.”

Illya’s admission comes after three glasses of vodka and two slices of cherry pie.

Gaby gives him a look Napoleon can only describe as _fond exasperation_ and says “How do you expect to dance at the party, then?” speaking of the UNCLE New Years party at Waverly’s home, a mansion tucked so deeply into an upstate New York plot of land that not even Napoleon, a New Yorker since birth, could ever hope to find it without a map.

Illya shrugs. “I don’t.”

“Oh, Illya, don’t be such a downer” Gaby clucks, bringing her glass to her lips and swallowing the rest of her vodka.

“I’m coming. Isn’t that enough?”

“Coming isn’t worth anything if you don’t enjoy yourself.” She thunks her glass down with that steely look Napoleon has known long enough to call determination, and gets up off the couch onto her bare, pink-toenail painted feet.

“Come,” Gaby is tugging Illya’s hands, doing very little to move the solid six foot slab of muscle from his spot on the couch.

“Gaby-”

“No, we’re dancing right now. You’ve got no say in the matter so you might as well just get up now.”

Illya turns to Napoleon for help, who simply gives him a look that says _what can you do?_ and with a great huff, Illya lets Gaby drag him off the couch.

Little Gaby has always been like that - persuasive with her charm when she wants to be, when she’s around friends (and has a little bit of alcohol in her) and Illya, bless his soul, is a victim to it almost every time.

Illya stands there, awkward with his hands at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with them while she puts the record on.

Music thumps out, some popular French band Gaby calls ‘just _divine_ ,’ an expression she’s refused to drop ever since she heard an american heiress use it at a dinner party.

“Come on, don’t they teach you to dance in Russia?”

He towers over her and tentatively puts a hand on her shoulder, like he’s afraid he might break her. His head sways to the music, a little off rhythm, and his clueless hand attempts to maneuver Gaby around the living room with a softness Napoleon would’ve never guessed he was capable of. A year ago Napoleon wouldn’t have been sure what to think about it, but now he has to say it’s endearing.

“You have to move your feet, silly.”

Illya blushes bright red, his bumbling, two left feet swaying back and forth with the clumsy rhythm of a high school boy at his first school dance. That is, if high schoolers stood six foot five, were built like a powerlifter, and could snap a man's neck in a single motion with the grace of a ballerina.

Perhaps _Russian Giant_ was an apt nickname after all.

* * *

Of all the things that are sparse, dull, and grey in Illya’s apartment, the bookshelf is the one thing that has any semblance of home in it. The worn spines, their cracked leather and paperback, the scraps of papers sticking out from between pages, and the tears on the covers all indicate the motion of Illya’s big hands gliding over and on them, gripping tightly, making notes. The collection is a little thing so far but it’s expanding and there’s a warmth in Napoleon's chest when he spots a new member of its small family tucked into one of the shelves.

“Nabokov, huh? I thought he was supposed to be a sell-out.” He runs his hands across the cover of _Pale Fire_ , mimicking the way he’s sure Illya himself did when he first picked up the book.

“Still a sell-out,” Illya calls from behind the bedroom door, “But a good writer.”

Napoleon hides his grin with his arm as he returns the book to its place on the shelf.

“Peril, if you don’t hurry up in there we’re going to be late.”

“I am ready.”

Napoleon notices that Illya has to duck, just slightly, to walk through the door frame, his back bending awkwardly as he hunches his way through.

Standing at full height in the dim light, the shadows from the lamplight across his chest, the yellow glow framing his face, he looks like a statue of Apollo he once saw in Hadrian’s collection; a god-like beauty of another world. 

* * *

“I was wondering where you disappeared to.” Napoleon finds Illya on Waverly’s balcony; a wrap-around that overlooks the orchards below.

“I am no good for dancing, I think.” Illya holds his champagne flute in his hands and it doesn’t escape Napoleon how large they are wrapped around that little glass, like they could shatter it in an instant if he so desired.

“It’s all about finding the right partner.”

Illya snorts, eyes looking down at the glass. “I think I would crush those girls in there. I step on their feet, whole foot is broken.”

“Please tell me you’re speaking from experience here, Peril.”

“No, only a joke, Cowboy. Perhaps you have heard of those, here in America.”

They’re both hiding smiles and they know it; something that’s been going on unspoken for too long now.

“I think Gaby’s wearing off on you; you didn’t used to be such an asshole.”

Illya nods, his smile no longer hidden but warm with affection. “She’s really something.”

It’s that smile, open and untamed and the soft jazz tune escaping through the cracks in the balcony door that lead Napoleon to make the offer.

“Come on, dance with me.” He gives Illya that most charming smile, his Napoleon Solo smile, but this time it isn’t an act. “Don’t bother if you step on my feet. I’m sure I can take it.”

He takes the champagne flute from Illya’s trembling hand and balances it on the balcony railing. He puts his hand on Illya’s shoulder, his other hand maneuvering Illya’s onto his waist. Illya moves his feet with a clumsy reluctance.

“See?” Napoleon says, “Not so bad.”

Illya gives him a shy smile. “Maybe.”

“I told you; it’s all about having the right partner.”

“Maybe you are right.”

“Happy New Year, Illya.” Saying his real name is so easy for Napoleon then, just as easy as it is to pull himself up to his height and kiss him - the New Years countdown was at least twenty minutes ago but Napoleon figures that with timing it’s always better late than never.


End file.
